


Introducing Natasha

by Caiti (Caitriona_3)



Series: The Barton Pack [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bingo, Clint Barton Bingo 2019, Good Things Happen Bingo, Marvel Bingo 2019, Multi, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 07:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitriona_3/pseuds/Caiti
Summary: Clint blows another mission...  At least this time it's not a teenager.  That's got to be a good thing, right?





	Introducing Natasha

**Author's Note:**

> Another story for this verse! I'm enjoying it very much and I hope you enjoy my take on Pack feels and family.
> 
> BINGO squares:  
> Marvel - Natasha Romanoff  
> Clint Barton - Soulmates  
> Bad Things - Put Down the Gun & Step Away - inspired  
> Good Things - What I'm Fighting For - inspired  
> Fluff - Getting a Lift Home - inspired

The interior decorating styles displayed by S.H.I.E.L.D. employees left a lot to be desired. Clint gave a soft snort as the odd thought winged through his mind. It’s not like he could give them pointers. His style tended to be minimalist to the point of bare, or even nonexistent. Or it had been . . . until he decided to lay Claim to a Pack of his own. Grant’s taste ran along the same line as his own, but Darcy and Brock - who ceased to be ‘Rumlow’ except officially - both scoffed at the idea of blank walls and simple furniture. They made it their personal goal to clutter up his life. How the hell did he get into this mess again? Oh, right - he walked into it with eyes wide open.

And he didn’t regret a moment of it.

Darcy might have gotten a late start in expressing herself, but in the past two years, she’d learned a lot about how to do it. She blossomed as a member of his Pack which tickled his pride. Her tastes ran to the bohemian and Brock enjoyed indulging her. He treated her like an adored niece, arranging to send her decorations and knick knacks from all over the world, wherever his team went. Even some of his teammates began sending her things. (Clint kept a close eye on those items; no matter how much he trusted Brock, he didn’t know the team as well.) Now both of his apartments as well as the farmhouse almost glowed with warmth and color as the pretty Omega rearranged them to her heart’s content.

His shoulders twitched as Darcy’s face flashed through his mind. Yeah, okay, pretty . . . but shit. Still a _teenager_. 

“You seem anxious.”

At the voice, he turned to look at the woman sitting beside him. The statuesque redhead sat with a stoic calm as she awaited S.H.I.E.L.D’s decision on her future. Natalia Alianovna Romanova - Russian spy and assassin - looked back at him, a hint of amusement showing in her cold green eyes. Her back straight and legs crossed, she looked like a professional expecting to walk into an easy interview. Even her scent - a Sigma’s brown sugar combined with her personal one, some kind of flower - seemed muted.

In contrast, he sprawled in his chair, casual and bored. “Not anxious,” he disagreed. “Just ready to go home.”

“To see your . . . Pack?” When he cocked an eyebrow, she rolled her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “Their scents are light on you, but I can tell you have one.” One corner of her mouth curled up. “No Alpha smells of honey, cloves, or ginger.”

“Ah.” 

He should have known better, especially after two years, but sometimes he still forgot how much the members of a Pack tended to imprint on one another. Mostly he’d gotten used to the envious looks from fellow agents and didn’t think about it. So he just gave a shrug of his own. “Yeah, I’ve been away too long.” He shook his head, disquiet flickering through him. “I don’t even know if they’re all in town.”

“You’ll be happy to know they’re at your local lodgings.”

Both of them turned towards the door as a new voice entered the conversation. Clint grinned, offering a lazy wave to his handler. He got a bland stare in return; Phil Coulson’s common response to his antics. “Hey, Coulson.”

“Agent Barton.” Faded blue eyes shifted towards Natalya. “Ms. Romanova.” He moved to the table and took a seat across from them. Files placed with strict precision on the table in front of him, he flicked his gaze from one to the other again before zeroing in on Clint. “First things first,” Coulson announced. “Agent Barton, please explain why you decided to ignore your mission parameters this time.” 

“You didn’t even emphasize that.” When he got another stare, Clint smothered a laugh. “Right, so I’d been following Nat for a few days,” he began.

“Nat?” The woman in question put a wealth of scathing distaste into the nickname.

“Prefer something else?”

“My name is Natalya,” she pointed out, one eyebrow lifting. “It doesn’t require shortening.”

“Agent Barton enjoys giving nicknames,” Coulson informed her. “But none of this is answering my question.”

“Right.” Clint shook his head. “So I’d followed her for a few days, and put together some intel,” he explained. “Something about her didn’t fit the file we’ve got . . . and I decided to take a chance.” 

His mind went back to Prague. 

Spending forty-eight hours watching his target stalk her own prey, Clint decided how he would deal with fulfilling his assignment. Fury wanted the Black Widow removed before she caused any more trouble for the United States. One shot, one kill might be the goal, but he also needed to deal with clean up. They didn’t want anything to track back to S.H.I.E.L.D. in this case and his arrows could do just that if the wrong person spotted her wounds. A few ideas for setting up the outcome stirred in his mind. His eyebrows rose as he watched the woman hesitate despite having the perfect opening to take her kill.

_What the hell?_

Then Clint spotted the little girls running out of the building, headed straight for Widow’s target, a Russian defector named Sergei Kuznetsov. When the man went down on one knee to gather the children into his arms, he watched as the assassin backed off, all but melting back into the shadows. Romanova’s file indicated she had no pity, fulfilling her tasks and assignments in quick, clean, and cold manner. 

“Bad intel,” Clint muttered, the family reunion still tugging at his own gut.

So Romanova held to a certain line, one he could respect. He rose and followed her over the rooftops as she acted the part of a tourist. Sometimes she would take an odd sideroad or an alleyway. Maybe she could sense his presence? Probably. She wouldn’t be a world-class spy or assassin if she didn’t feel the tail. But he remembered the scene of those two little girls rushing to their daddy and an idea began to percolate in his mind. Eventually she led him to her handler . . . and when the woman went to strike her, he put an arrow through his new target.

Narrowed green eyes focused up to the roof as a wicked looking blade appeared in her hand. “So you’re my stalker.”

“You say stalker, I say rescuer,” he shrugged, swinging down to perch on a balcony. He might have decided to see if he could talk her into flipping sides, but that didn’t mean he intended to put himself in easy reach. 

Reckless? Yes.

Suicidal? No.

Locking eyes, they stared at each other for several long minutes. Then Natalya lifted an eyebrow, her hold on the knife still firm and prepared. “Why did you follow me?” she asked. “And why didn’t you kill me?”

“You spared Kuznetsov.”

“I didn’t have the shot.”

“Bullshit.” His snort held derision. With that sound, he dropped the last ten feet to the ground. “You don’t want to answer? Fine, just say so, but do me the courtesy of not thinking I’m blind or an idiot.”

Her face tightened as she seemed to struggle with emotions. “His daughters didn’t deserve that nightmare.”

“So you failed your mission.”

“It happens.”

“And your handler is dead.” He glanced at the woman he’d put an arrow through, making a mental note to fix the scene if he got a chance. “That can’t be good either.”

“I could kill you,” she pointed out. “The elusive Hawkeye’s death would clean my slate.”

“Yeah, but I bet I could make you a better deal.”

Both of Natalya’s eyebrows climbed at that and he could see the interest burgeoning in her regard. “What kind of deal?”

“A chance to come in out of the cold,” Clint replied. “And a chance to work for someone who will give you more leeway in choosing your own missions if you earn the bosses’ trust.”

“Choice…” Her voice trailed off.

“Come on, Widow.” He leaned back against the wall, a challenging glint in his eyes. “Take a chance on my side of the tracks.”

She stared at him for a long moment, the wicked looking blade steady in her grip. Then her eyes closed in one long slow blink before she straightened. With a flick of her wrist, the knife vanished and she tilted her head, face a mask of innocent curiosity. “Do they have a retirement package?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “If anybody makes it that far.”

“I’ve never had one of those.” Natalya’s lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. “It might be interesting.”

Bringing his full attention back to the table, Clint grinned at Coulson. “There you have it.”

“At least she’s not a teenager.” 

He had to chuckle at the muttered comment. “Hey, I promised a hiatus on bringing in any more kids.”

One eyebrow went up in a quiet disdain. “And you expected me to believe that?”

“Not really, but it was worth a try.”

“Ms. Romanova.” Coulson turned his focus on the woman, ignoring Clint’s soft laughter. “Considering Agent Barton’s . . . success record in recruitment, S.H.I.E.L.D is willing to begin the vetting process. During this time, we will need to keep you under observation.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I can offer you two options.” Curiosity flickered in the serene mask, but Natalya held her reaction to a simple tilt of her chin. “Option number one,” he continued, “would require you to stay in holding until we have a chance to finish.”

“Killing her by boredom?” Clint smirked. “She’d probably prefer my arrow.”

“Says the sniper?” She slanted a look at him. 

“Which should tell you something.”

“If I may?” Coulson sighed. He waited until they both turned back to him. “Your second choice would be a tracking anklet.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thin circle and placed it on the table. “We will allow you to remain in a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house so long as you agree to wear this at all times.”

Natalya reached for the anklet, but Clint’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. He felt her muscles bunch under his hand. Nothing showed in her face . . . and he would wager six month’s pay that she barely restrained herself from lashing out. “Let him tell you the rest.”

“In addition to being a tracker,” Coulson continued, “the anklet has a failsafe device. Should you attempt to remove it, the anklet will explode. Should your defection prove false, we have the ability to detonate the device remotely.” Mild regret colored his voice. “Trust must be earned, Ms. Romanova.”

“Romanoff.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her chin lifted. “I will wear the anklet,” she informed him, “provided Agent Barton chooses the safe house.” Clint blinked at her and the faintest of smiles slid over her face before fading into stoicism. “But I would prefer to use the American form of my name.”

“Romanoff, then?”

“Natasha Romanoff,” she agreed. “It’s a new life, yes? Then I should have a new name.”

“That sounds familiar,” Clint murmured. Her eyebrows shot up, but he shook his head. “Story for another time.”

“I shall start setting up your training and evaluation schedule,” Coulson decided. “Barton, please make sure Ms. Romanoff is fit with an anklet and given a spot in one of our safe houses.” He rose, turned towards the door, and then paused. “She will be under your supervision for the time being as well.”

“Then I guess I’m taking her to my place.”

An hour later found them walking up to a seven story apartment building in a nice, but nondescript neighborhood.

“This is your building?” 

“One of them,” Clint agreed. When she narrowed her eyes, he shrugged. “For a good long time, I didn’t have much to spend money on . . . and I’d rather control **all** the security systems.”

Understanding replaced suspicion and she nodded. “I see.”

“Did I catch a glint of approval there?” he teased.

“Perhaps you misunderstood.”

“Yeah, right.” He pulled out a keycard, ran it through the security swipe. “C’mon. Let’s see what kind of food they’ve got set up.” Turning towards the elevator, he led her through the doors. “If we’re really lucky, Darcy decided to cook. Second best luck means there’s pizza.” As the doors closed, he punched in a code. 

“And if we don’t have either?”

“Then there’s going to be an argument over where to get dinner.”

Scents surrounded him as they stepped out on the top floor, enveloping him in the sense of Pack. Clint felt a huge weight roll off his shoulders as he relaxed into the feeling of ‘home’. Something he hadn’t had since he was a kid . . . if he’d even had it then. A couple of years made them a new Pack still, but they felt right, as if they’d been together for a lot longer. Drawing in a deep breath, he sorted through all of the sensory input. Healthy, strong, relaxed - he smiled as the last of the tension began to bleed away. His people seemed to be in good shape. 

Brock - currently acting as his Second: the Delta’s sandalwood and ginger filled the hallway. He’d been steadfast about patrolling the area around their apartment. Clint hesitated to call it a Den. If he had his way, the farmhouse would be their true Den, but they didn’t have a chance to get things in order there. Decorated, yes, but none of them stayed there longer than a day or two at a time . . . and a true Den needed longer than that.

Grant - his protégé and adopted son - his personal vetiver combined with the spicy scent of cloves, common of a Gamma. It still felt weird to think he’d adopted someone . . . or that the powers that be would let him do it. Clint didn’t want to know what kind of strings Fury and Coulson had to pull in order to get the adoption approved, but he never regretted the impulse. Not even when Grant decided to join S.H.I.E.L.D. Yeah, **_he_** worked for the covert organization; he wanted safer for the kid.

Speaking of kids . . . 

Darcy - his soulmate and a rare Omega: cinnamon and honey scents wrapped around him. She made this place home - her warmth and instinct for creating intimate, welcoming spaces. His mind still reeled at the idea of even having a soulmate, let alone being bonded to a teenager. In some ways it proved a blessing as her presence taught him to keep his overprotective Alpha instincts on a leash. He didn’t want to scare or inhibit her - so he couldn’t really indulge the primitive urge to formalize the bond. Not to mention the little issue of age of consent - seventeen might qualify, but Clint wanted her to experience a little more before she made such a big decision.

Soulmates didn’t _have_ to be romantic after all.

“Your Pack creates a pleasant blend.”

He glanced at Natasha. “Thanks.” Nodding to a door across the hall, he offered her a key. “That’s your place,” he informed her. “I’d like you to come meet my people, but if you’d prefer to let that wait, that’s fine too.”

She paused and then inclined her head. “Meeting them now is fine.”

“Great.” Clint gave her a grin. “Come on over.” He headed for his door, then paused as his hand grasped the doorknob. “They’re going to be suspicious of you.”

“As they should be.”

“Try not to alienate them too much, okay?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he unlocked the door and strode into the living room. The scent of Italian spices and tomatoes arrowed straight to his belly, drawing a growl of hunger. He rubbed his stomach before calling out. “Anybody home?”

“Clint!”

Joy all but echoed in the room as Darcy rushed out of the kitchen to throw herself into his open arms. She giggled as he caught her up and spun her around. When he stopped and held her close, she buried her face against his throat. He nuzzled her hair, drawing in her scent as he let her find her own reassurance. It took a few minutes, but he waited her out and at last she pulled back. 

She rubbed her cheek against his and then smiled at him. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, _pisicuța_.” Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her temple. His gaze shifted to the other two members of his Pack as they loitered nearby. “You guys waiting on an invitation?”

Both men came over and they each exchanged their own greeting - a warrior clasp that laid their arms wrist to wrist, allowing for the exchange of scent before their free arms came up and around to slap shoulders. Darcy usually laughed at them about their need to be macho with their ‘man-hug’ routine . . . but this time she said nothing.

“You okay, princess?”

At Brock’s question, Clint’s gaze shot to Darcy. The young woman stared towards the doorway, anxiety coloring her soft blue eyes. “Ah.” He made a face. “Sorry - I got distracted with getting home.” Turning, he looked to where Natasha stood waiting in the doorway. His mouth curled up at the corners. “And I appreciate you waiting.”

“I don’t intend to intrude on your Pack’s territory.”

“Got that.” He stepped forward, moving into a spot halfway between his Pack and the spy. “Everyone, this is Natasha Romanoff.” No spoke as he gestured to her. They watched, caution and interest mingling in their expressions. “Natasha, meet my Pack. My current Second,” he began, “Brock Rumlow - also a member of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Delta,” she nodded.

He returned it. “Sigma.” Amusement glittered over the cautious look in his dark eyes. “You look familiar . . . though I’m pretty sure I should be seeing notice of your untimely demise.” Like most Deltas, Brock tended to be social and communicative - as well as a confident protector. “Up to your old tricks, Barton?” Easy with self-assurance, he stood guard over their small Pack, a smirk hovering over his lips at his Alpha’s eye roll. 

“Bite me.”

“You don’t have enough curves to be my type.”

As the quick exchange of quips soothed the tenseness from Darcy’s shoulders, Clint continued his introductions. “Next up is Grant Ward.” He tilted his chin towards the man who started him down this path. “He’s just finished his training.”

Grant kept his reaction to a simple nod. Quiet and observant on his own, his Gamma instincts towards introversion and sneakiness meant he rarely spoke outside of their home unless he needed to make a point. It gave him the reputation of being cold and surly. Clint wanted to laugh every time he heard someone note anything of the sort - they’d never seen the kid arguing movies with Brock or music with Darcy.

Speaking of whom…

“And this is Darcy,” he introduced. “Darcy Lewis.” 

Clint curled his arm around Darcy’s waist, offering a silent support to the still-hesitant Omega. He wanted to smack himself for forgetting to call ahead. She’d come a long way in the past couple of years, but sometimes she would backslide into the near ghost she’d been when he first made the Pack official. Abrupt surprises and new people provoked her anxiety . . . and he damn well **knew** that. 

“Hi.”

The soft word fell into the silent air as Darcy volunteered a tremulous smile. Natasha’s eyes narrowed by a hair as she examined the younger woman before offering a deeper nod. “Ms. Lewis.”

Darcy’s smile strengthened from shaky to small. A small alarm rang in the kitchen and she glanced up at Clint before turning her eyes back to the redhead. “We’re ready to have dinner,” she announced, voice still soft. “Would you join us?”

A flicker of surprise flashed through Natasha’s green eyes. “I don’t wish to impose.”

“We have more than enough.” Humor lit Darcy’s smile as she turned to him. “And you’ll probably even like it.”

“You cooked, right, _pisicuța_?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll like it.”

She laughed and her entire being relaxed. “It’s a new recipe,” she explained. “Pizza pot pies.”

“Huh?”

“Chicken pot pie but with pizza stuffing.” Brock explained. “It’s why the place smells like a pizzeria.”

“Got it.” Clint leaned down to press another kiss to the top of Darcy’s head. “And that sounds fantastic,” he told her. Affection rolled through him as he nuzzled her hair. Even with the hint of dinner clinging to her, he still felt himself willing to get lost in her scent. **That** thought shook him enough to pull back to give her a mock pathetic pout. “Feed me?”

“Come on.” Darcy hugged him again before pulling away to walk into the kitchen. “Somebody needs to set the table!” 

Grant nodded at him, indicating he’d handle that task while Brock managed to keep himself between Natasha and the younger members of their Pack. It would take more than an introduction and a few minutes to settle the Delta’s protective instincts. He gestured to Natasha, leading her towards the dining room. 

“A large apartment,” she noted, her eyes scanning the room. “And colorful.”

“Large because I like space.” He did his own scan as Grant moved around them with plates in his hands. “Colorful because Darcy hates blank walls and Brock likes to indulge her.” A soft, amused snort came from where his protégé worked to set the table. “Got something to say, kid?”

“I could mention pots and kettles, but why point out the obvious?” With that he strode out of the room.

“He speaks.”

“Once in a while.” Clint grinned as he threw himself in the chair at the head of the table. “Have a seat.”

With a quick glance, Natasha obviously determined the usual seating arrangement and took the ‘extra’ seat. Grant came back in with flatware, the set of his shoulders softening as he spotted her. The respect shown to Pack territory made a good impression. More approval came from Brock as he brought in the tray of pies. He gave a quiet nod to the visitor before stepping back out of the room with the younger man on his heels. 

“Thanks for this,” Clint murmured, cocking an eyebrow at her seating choice.

“Your mate,” she began, pausing when he choked on air. Amusement tilted the corners of her mouth into a sardonic smile. “Cute.”

“She’s seventeen.”

His mutter did nothing to erase her smile. “I see.” Clint rolled his eyes at her, but she continued without concern. “Your mate invited me to a meal. It would be rude to repay such courtesy by invading her space.”

“Thank you.”

Both of them looked up to find Darcy standing in the doorway, a warmer smile gracing her face. In her hands, she held a colorful bundle of cloth. The other men stood behind her, their stares showing surprise. She stepped into the room, walking over towards Natasha. “If Clint brought you here, I’m betting you’re staying in the building, right?”

“Yes.” The spy inclined her chin. “Across the hall.”

“It’s furnished,” Darcy nodded. “But it’s pretty bare. You’ll need some color.” She held out the cloth bundle. “This will make it more comfortable.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she noted. “I’m a stranger to you.”

“Clint brought you home.”

“I needed a place to stay.”

“But he brought you **home** ,” Darcy repeated. “Even though he’s got other safe houses you could have used. That’s something.” When the redhead tilted her head in consideration, she smiled. “He’s thrown missions before, but he almost never brings someone home . . . even just for dinner.”

“It’s not like I’m anti-social,” Clint protested, then fell silent when his Pack gave him matching looks of exasperated mirth. “Okay, fine - so I don’t bring most people here.”

“Exactly.” She turned back to their guest. “So that makes you different.”

Another quiet moment passed as the two females stared at each other. Then Natasha reached out, accepting the bundle. “Thank you,” she smiled. “I appreciate the gift.” Careful, as if she held glass instead of cloth, she placed her welcome present on the floor beside her chair.

“Good.” Darcy’s smile blossomed, still less than her usual brilliance, but wider than it had been, as she turned to take her seat beside Clint. “Then let’s eat.”

Dinner conversation might have been more stilted than usual, but it didn’t have too many awkward pauses. No one discussed work - instead they focused on favorite movies or music, all the silly little details that made up a person’s life. If Natasha seemed to have less to add than the rest of them, they glossed it over by switching topics.

And he could see a calculation in Darcy’s eyes; one that said she saw more than people expected.

Clint walked Natasha across the hall, his curiosity prompting him to follow her into the beige living area. She went to prowl through the rest of the space while he stared at the bundle she’d placed on the couch. He poked at it as if he might figure out it’s contents by touch. The colors all screamed Darcy - her taste showing in the comforting blend of hues. By sight and by touch, the blanket itself meant to give comfort, warmth . . . but he wondered what else she’d included.

“A kind gift,” Natasha stated as she returned to his side.

“That’s Darcy’s way . . . sometimes.”

Just a whisper of bewilderment flickered in her face. “She’s very . . . accepting.”

“Not really.” He shook his head, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms over his chest. “But she’ll withhold judgement. Once she decides to accept you, she won’t pass it either.” One corner of his mouth pulled up into an ironic smile. “Now if she doesn’t accept you or decides you’re evil? It’d take an act of God to get off her shit list . . . and He better give her a damn good reason.”

“I’ll remember that.”

With another long look, Clint left her apartment, waiting until he heard the lock click in place behind him before he returned to his own place. They would be waiting for him as they always did a movie night when anyone returned from a mission. At least they would when the person in question came home without injuries. If they’d been injured . . . 

Well, then they all piled into medical and drove the nurses crazy.

Brock stood in the living room, two tumblers of amber liquid in his hands. He cocked an eyebrow. “Are we keeping her?”

“She’s a Sigma,” Clint reminded him. He could hear the sound of laughter and water in the kitchen. Darcy and Grant must be handling the clean up. “They don’t necessarily take well to being ‘kept’.”

“Because we do anything the normal way?”

“Have to see.” He accepted one of the glasses “She didn’t take out her target, despite the perfect opportunity, in order to spare his kids.” Swirling the glass, he watched the liquid move for a moment before taking a sip. “I think she’d fit,” he admitted. “Or she might - if she unbends enough to let herself.”

“Darcy likes her.”

Clint’s eyebrows rose. “Does she?”

“Yep.” Brock took a drink from his own glass. “She agrees with you - thinking the woman’s scent fits with the rest of us.” He gave a wry smile. “Plus she liked her manners, how Romanoff did everything possible to make as little impact on our place as possible.”

“And Grant?”

“Holding his cards close to his chest as usual.” He leaned against the back of the couch. “A little more training and he’ll have one hell of a poker face, but I’d say he’s tentatively accepting.”

“She might not stay,” Clint pointed out. “There’s a strong streak of lone wolf in her.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a Sigma. Not that it always means anything - look at you.” Dark eyes twinkled with humor as the Delta took another sip of whiskey. “An Alpha who lived for years as a Sigma - and then flipped back to Claim three of us out of nowhere.”

“It wasn’t out of nowhere.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tossing back the rest of the whiskey, Clint headed towards the kitchen. “Are we doing movie night or what?” he demanded, interrupting the impromptu water fight. When both of them gave him mischievous looks, he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think-.”

Water flew before he finished the warning.

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen finally cleaned - and dried - and all of them dressed for bed, the Pack gathered in their family room. Everyone took their favorite spots as Brock tossed the remote to Clint. Clint sprawled out on one end of the couch with Darcy curled up beside him, her legs stretched over the rest of it. One of his arms curled around her waist. Grant stretched out on the floor, a pillow under his head, as Brock took the recliner. Half the time they’d all pass out during the movie, but that didn’t bother any of them.

“Did we decide what we’re watching?” Clint asked as he queued up their collection.

“Too Wong Foo,” Darcy replied.

“No.” Grant rolled his eyes. “Catch Me if You Can.”

The older men exchanged glances before Clint started punching buttons. “Who picked the movie last time?”

“I did,” Darcy sighed. “All right, we can watch the crime flick.”

Clint tightened his arm, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. “It’s earlier than usual for us,” he reminded her. “We’ve probably got time for both.” Starting the movie, he dropped the remote on the table beside him. As he let his head fall back against the couch, he bet he wouldn’t last through the first film, but that didn’t bother him. Surrounded by his Pack, he felt warm, safe, and at ease. Yeah, he still needed to figure out how to build some kind of trust with the red-headed spy across the hall, but that wouldn’t happen tonight, so why worry? Instead he let himself slip into a doze. Maybe he could get in a quick catnap before he had to watch Darcy’s comedy.

**Author's Note:**

> Recipe: [Pizza Pot Pies](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/pizza-pot-pies-recipe-1950671)


End file.
